


PRIDE/DESIRE

by kunimi



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Biting, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Choking, M/M, Shotgunning, Timeskip Spoilers, but tsukishima kei thinks about wild things and he knows a boy with sharp eyes and sharp teeth, if we're being generous, it's minor - mostly kei's fantasies, tsukishima kei thinks about wild things and colours a lot, you could argue this fic is about any one of several relationships tsukishima has
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:16:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26443306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kunimi/pseuds/kunimi
Summary: You’re more cruel,he thinks of Kunimi saying.He couldn’t be as sharp if he tried.He looks at Kyoutani’s teeth, and thinks,I want him to try.tsukishima kei dreams of sharp teeth & sad colours.
Relationships: Kyoutani Kentarou/Tsukishima Kei
Comments: 8
Kudos: 70
Collections: stories that touched me





	PRIDE/DESIRE

**Author's Note:**

> i was working on the tkknkg for polyam bang but last night i'd read the entire jackadlers match onwards looking for bokuto & sakusa things (for. reasons) and unfortunately that just put the 402 frogs scene in my head so i banged this out today so i could return to focusing on what i was working on fdjhksfjkds
> 
> this is half nation and lestey's fault for being there when i was doing my bokuto & sakusa deep dive and not stopping me (and actually instigating it)
> 
> also if delta or elo see this, as the first two people i know who ever wrote kyoukei (which i still haven't read either yet bc i am terrible and haven't read anything other than omigiri in weeks but they are on my list after i finish my deadlines this month!! i am SO excited fdshjkfdshjk september is just kicking my ass with deadlines and familial injuries), this is for u. hopefully i did not butcher ur boys too badly in my attempts to get them out of my head

When Kei was seven, he had found himself cornered by a dog in the neighbourhood. Akiteru had rescued him, because back then, there was nothing he couldn’t do. 

“Don’t make eye contact,” Akiteru had said, in that soothing tone of his. “Tilt your head—yeah, just like that, there you go, and back away slowly— _slowly_ , Kei… good, good. Turn sideways, fold your arms, just make yourself smaller. Bet that’s the first time anyone’s said that to you, huh?”

Kei had trembled silently, but done as he was told, with only the slightest of eyerolls. Akiteru had eased his way between his brother and the dog, his hands held up in front of him, and exhaled a ragged breath.

“Okay,” he had said. “You can run now, Kei.”

Kei does not remember how Akiteru escaped, nor the route he took home. Kei remembers the whites of the dog’s eyes, the sharpness of its teeth, bared and hungry.

Kei remembers, even now, after his relationship with Akiteru has waxed and waned through an entire cycle of the moon, how his brother taught him that most important lesson of survival: never make eye contact with a wild thing, for it will take it as a challenge.

Make yourself smaller if you can.

Remember how to _run.  
  
_

✧  
  


Hinata asks him once what his favourite colour is.

“Not orange,” Kei says promptly, and Hinata shoves him.

“Jerk,” he grumbles, but he says it in that tone which means they are trading in instinct rather than sincerity. It is an art form which few are skilled in, swallowing Kei’s words without catching on their jagged edges on the way down, but all of Kei’s fellow yearmates from his Karasuno volleyball days are fluent. Unfortunately.

“Blue, maybe,” Kei says after a moment, and does not think about Kageyama’s eyes.

Hinata hums. “That’s such a sad colour,” he says, tilting his head backwards to rest against the wall. Kei supposes it is. Blue is the surface of an untouched lake, marred only by spills of moonlit silver. Blue is walking down the street in the drizzling afternoon, melancholy stretching from your headphones to the path before you. Blue is Rio, six months from now, and onwards, upwards, higher than Kei can ever reach.

“There’s no such thing as a sad colour,” he says instead, and Hinata argues, like he knows he will.  
  


✧  
  


The Sendai Frogs’ uniform is green.

 _At least it’s not orange_ , he thinks, and he misses Hinata for a moment. _At least it’s not blue_ , and he misses Kageyama too, even though he’s closer.

He texts a photo of it to Yachi, because she’s the only one he trusts with photographic evidence of himself, and she texts him back _!!!!_ , followed by _Yamaguchi’s here—want to come by?_

“I can’t believe you didn’t send me a photo,” Yamaguchi says when he opens the door to Yachi’s apartment, and Kei scoffs.

“It’s _green_ ,” he says, casting Yamaguchi an unimpressed look. “As if I would ever willingly send that to you, Akiteru or Hinata.” He pauses, then adds, upon consideration, “or Sugawara-san.”

“No trust,” Yamaguchi says, shaking his head, but he’s grinning as he steps out of the doorway for Kei to slip in. There are too many lights on, as always, because Yachi is some sort of human equivalent of a moth, and Kei can hear what he recognises as Yamaguchi’s drunk playlist coming through the computer speakers. He scans the room, eyes narrowing, until they settle on a few bottles on the edge of Yachi’s bench.

“Midori?” he asks wryly, noting the distinct colour peeking out behind the vodka and lime juice.

Yachi shrugs from the kitchen, and Yamaguchi gives Kei a mischievous grin.

“Hey,” he says. “It’s _green_ ,” and Kei can’t help it. He snorts, rolling his eyes at the pair of them. There is an unbearable fondness in his chest, climbing its way up his spine, twining itself through his ribs. He doesn’t think he could uproot it if he tried.  
  


✧  
  


Kei dreams of meadows and ponds, frogs floating in a sea of endless blue, sunlight glittering over the water. He dreams of the moon coming out, the sunlight fading away, and a drizzling rain. It looks like tears on the frogs’ faces.

He hears Hinata’s voice asking _why do you look so sad?_

Kei dreams of teeth, and running, running, _running_.  
  


✧  
  


“Hey, he’s from Seijoh, right? He was the ace the year above Kunimi, right? With the cool cross-court spikes?” Koganegawa asks, and Kei looks up.

Kyoutani Kentarou stands across the court from them. Kei thinks he might be slightly taller now, but otherwise, he looks almost exactly the same: sharp eyes, and something dangerous coiled in the spring of his muscles, like a weapon waiting to be fired.

“His hair looks worse now,” Kei mutters in response, eyeing it critically. 

Almost like he hears him, Kyoutani looks up, and all Kei can hear in his mind is Akiteru’s voice: _Don’t make eye contact_. It’s been eighteen years since Kei waited for his brother to save him, yet he stills on instinct, just like always.

One day, he’ll unlearn it, he thinks. It’s not about Akiteru specifically, so much as it is that he wants his hands to belong to him, to react to instinct he builds into them, not the fear of a child.

There _is_ something different about Kyoutani now, Kei realises, as he surveys his body. He’s more muscled now, of course, grown in ways they never could have been as teenagers, but it’s in the tension of his limbs: he’s always been as taut as a bow ready to snap, but there’s something more languid about him now, something gleaming in his eyes. A wolf rather than a weapon.

Kei frowns.

Kyoutani Kentarou is a boy, not a wolf. Perhaps a man. Not a weapon. Not a distraction. Not something to draw Kei’s eyes, Kei’s focus, Kei’s thoughts.

“C’mon,” he says to Koganegawa, inclining his head towards the net. He resolutely ignores the feeling of eyes on him. “Set for me.”  
  


✧  
  


“You should exercise your fingers more,” Kyoutani says.

Kei stares at him.

“To make them stronger,” Kyoutani clarifies, and Kei rolls his eyes.

“I got that part,” he says, and Kyoutani glares at him.

It shouldn’t make Kei zero in on his eyes, the ferociousness of them, but it does.

 _Don’t make eye contact_. Akiteru’s voice swims in his head, unbidden, and Kei’s lips twist into a grim smile.

He looks at his hands and thinks, _this is what it is to unlearn.  
  
_

✧  
  


Sometimes when Kei looks at Kunimi, it feels like there’s something lodged in his chest, too small to grip, but too large to breathe comfortably around. Sometimes, it’s just like this: the night is quiet, and Kei’s head is too. The only thing that matters is the sharpness of their words, the quiet amusement of their voices, the way Kunimi’s eyelashes cut through the moonlight. The way Kunimi cuts through Kei.

“Was he a dick at school?” Kei asks, then inhales. _One, two, three._ Kunimi leans forward, and Kei raises his eyebrow. Kunimi meets his eyes steadily, half-bored, half-challenging. It’s very Kunimi, Kei muses, to want something and refuse to ask for it—he wears indifference the way Kei wears disillusionment, wrapped so tightly around him that it’s almost impossible to tell where the mask ends and the boy begins.

Kei removes the joint from his mouth and leans forward, like Kunimi knew he would, and ghosts his lips over his. He exhales the smoke into Kunimi’s mouth— _one, two, three_ —then leans back, eyeing Kunimi.

There’s the faintest smile on Kunimi’s face—a glimmer more than a shape—but he shrugs. “Depends,” he says.

“On?” Kei asks. Kunimi’s lips are red, and the moonlight is splayed across his skin. Kei does not think about this, or the colour blue, or sharp teeth.

“He was a jerk, but he was harmless,” Kunimi says, rolling his eyes. “Like a stupider Kageyama—cared too much and had an attitude problem. Bad at playing with others. Blunt force weapon.”

Kei does not miss the way Kunimi’s mouth moves around Kageyama’s name. It is achingly familiar.

“Hmmm,” Kei says, and Kunimi rolls his eyes.

“You’re more cruel,” he says bluntly. “He couldn’t be as sharp if he tried.”

Kei blinks. “Which one?” he asks. He does not take it as an insult. Kunimi sounds disappointed in whoever he’s talking about, like it’s a personal failing, not being as good at being mean as Kei. Not as good at protecting themselves as Kunimi.

“Both,” Kunimi says, almost a sigh.

Kei nods. Inhales. _One, two, three_. 

Kunimi leans in.

  
✧  
  


“Tsukishima,” Kyoutani asks, “is that a fucking _tattoo?”_

Koganegawa whips his head around so quickly that Kei immediately digs out one of his travel heat packs from his locker, warming it between his palms. 

“It is,” he answers, then throws the heat pack at Koganegawa, who catches it gratefully, placing it to his neck.

“Of _what?”_ Kyoutani asks curiously.

Kei pauses. His tattoo is not hidden. It is on his collarbone, easy to see if facing his chest, but given he normally changes with his back to his teammates, he supposes it’s possible none of them have seen it.

He shoots Kyoutani his most provocative smirk, the one he used to give Kageyama and Hinata during first year, and says, “That’s classified information.”

He is not disappointed.

Kyoutani’s eyebrows knit into a glare, his eyes burning with mild irritation, and his expression twists into something caught between consternation and aggravation.

He folds his arms, muttering something under his breath about stupid middle blockers, lips twisted downwards, and Kei feels that familiar satisfaction bubbling in his stomach, the feeling of having gotten under someone’s skin—

But there’s something sharper to it too. Something warmer. It’s coiling inside him, something white-hot with teeth.

 _Oh_ , Kei thinks. He glances at Kyoutani, roves his eyes over his arms, commits his frustrated expression to memory. Kei _wants_.

He’s not stupid. He knows there was always an element of this to his fascination, that there was an edge to it when he teased about his tattoo, but there’s something very different between theoretically understanding that your teammate is aesthetically intriguing and wanting to know what it would feel like to wring out noises of frustration because of a different kind of teasing.

Rinse, repeat.

Perhaps he focused on the wrong habit to unlearn.

  
✧  
  


Kei dreams of sharp teeth, of wolves and weapons and a bow snapping, the arrow shooting past him faster than he can run.

He dreams of running, and he’s not sure if he’s running away from the wild thing this time, or running towards it.  
  


✧  
  


**Kageyama:** Hinata boke where are you

 **Hinata:** trying to find omi-san!! 

**Kageyama:** He’s with Osamu-san

 **Hinata:** ooh where!!

 **Kageyama:** No you don’t want to find them

 **Kageyama:** They’re just staring at each other again

 **Kageyama:** It’s been fifteen minutes

 **Kei:** Have you just been watching them look at each other, King?

 **Kageyama:** No

 **Kageyama:** Well

 **Kageyama:** Yes

 **Kageyama:** I was with Ushijima-san but Iwaizumi-san showed up

 **Yamaguchi:** ...and?

 **Hinata:** and ushiwaka is in love with iwaizumi-san! oikawa-san told me

 **Kageyama:** Ugh that’s still so weird

 **Kei:** I’m with the King on this one

 **Yamaguchi:** Same

 **Hinata:** yachi!! you’re on my side right!!

 **Yachi:** _[message read]_

 **Kei:** This is the greatest moment of my life

 **Kei:** I’m making this my new phone background

 **Hinata:** fuck you suckishima

 **Kageyama:** Can you make it the chat icon too

 **Hinata:** ??? fuck you??

 **Kei:** As you wish  
  


✧  
  


Kei’s room is minimalist. That’s what Yachi says.

Hinata says it’s boring, but he has the aesthetic palate of a toddler, so Kei is inclined to ignore him. He’s probably right, though.

Kei’s room is a liminal space. It looks empty, but there are ghosts of all the people who have ever been in it, all the people who have ever housed themselves within Kei’s chest.

The shelves are covered in books, arranged neatly, and three dinosaur figurines from his parents and Akiteru, moved from his childhood room. On the desk, there are copies of three years’ worth of Nationals Tournament guides, slightly dog-eared on the Karasuno pages. There are a collection of hair ties in the top drawer, Yachi’s and Yamaguchi’s and Hinata’s, ones they’ve left around the various spaces he’s lived in since he was fifteen, that he’s kept on his wrist, in his room, in his heart.

Even Kunimi, who manages to exist in most places without ever leaving a physical presence, lives within the bounds of his walls, held in the way Kei’s desk chair remembers the shape of him. He is in the unopened pack of cigarettes on the nightstand, the precise scrawl on the calendar pinned to Kei’s wall, even the photos Koganegawa insisted on putting up of all their high school days and Kei has not quite brought himself to take down.

That horrifying shirt Hinata brought back for him from Brazil is buried in the back of his closet, and Kageyama’s jersey should be there too, but instead it’s bunched over the back of the desk chair, being examined by sharp eyes.

Kyoutani Kentarou is another thing that does not belong in Kei’s room, and yet here he stands.

“Didja buy your boyfriend’s jersey?” he asks, half-growl, half-jeer, and Kei thinks it’s meant to sting.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Kei says evenly, and does not say that he did not buy it, does not say that it was never for sale. He does not say that Kageyama Tobio played for Japan in this jersey, and then left it in Kei’s room with a clumsy whisper and too-earnest eyes once. He does not say that Kunimi gives him wry looks whenever he comes by, that they are both always so careful to avoid touching it too much. 

Kyoutani throws him a flat look. It rankles those twin beasts inside Kei, his pride that flares up at the insinuation that he values Kyoutani’s opinion enough to lie to him and his desire to maintain his aloof, sardonic edge. Pride pitted against desire; isn’t that always how it goes?

“Isn’t that Kindaichi’s?” Kyoutani asks, his eyes fixed on a leather jacket hanging off a hook beside the door. As far as Kei can recall, Hinata left it behind, so Kyoutani is probably right, but Kei doesn’t want to talk about Hinata or any of the ten boys in love with him right now.

“Feel free to invite him to pick it up,” Kei drawls. “I didn’t realise you were so interested in interior design. Or is it just me you’re invested in?”

There’s an edge of scorn to his voice, something sharp and serrated. Kyoutani lets it catch on him as he swallows Kei’s words, letting them sink into his skin, and he flushes.

Kei wants to know what he’d look like swallowing more than taunts.

“Shut up,” Kyoutani says, but his eyes are burning, and he steps forward. Steps closer to Kei.

_Don’t make eye contact._

“Make me,” Kei breathes, drawing himself up, every inch of height he has to tower over Kyoutani, staring him right in those sharp eyes.

_Just make yourself smaller._

It’s weird, Kei thinks. He has no idea what colour Kyoutani’s eyes are, and he’s staring right into them. Some shade of brown, but lighter than Kunimi’s dark ones. Something warmer than Kageyama’s blue. Kei prides himself on being able to perceive things in situations, and he’s twenty-three years old. He should know what fucking colour Kyoutani Kentarou’s eyes are.

But he looks into them, and all he notices is the way they burn.

“You’re just looking for a distraction,” Kyoutani says, which is remarkably astute. It’s also not a _no_ , Kei notes.

“And what are you looking for?” Kei asks. It should be a taunt, and it is, but there’s a touch of genuine curiosity to his tone that he hates. Yamaguchi would give him a sidelong glance. Yachi would press her fingers to his wrist. Hinata would grin. Kunimi would call him out on it. Kageyama would want more.

Kyoutani scowls. Kyoutani does not hear it.

It is a freedom, Kei thinks, not to be known.

“Why do I have to be _looking_ for anything?” Kyoutani spits, and steps closer.

Kei remembers being fifteen years old, standing on a volleyball court, and saying _uselessly hot-blooded people irritate me_. Now he wants to dig his nails into Kyoutani’s skin—feel that hot blood running electric through his body, coursing beneath his fingers, a fire that will burn everything out of Kei, everything he does not want to think about.

“So there’s nothing you want?” Kei challenges, raising an eyebrow.

Kyoutani quiets. “I didn’t say that,” he says after a moment, but his voice is different now. Still rough, but not angry. Kei replays it in his head, picks out all the different notes in it. He thinks it’s almost vulnerable, which is something he doesn’t want to touch with a ten foot pole, but there’s something else there. _Heat._

Kei leans forward, tilting his head so his mouth ghosts over Kyoutani’s ear. “So what do you want?” he asks, a rush of vindictive pleasure going through him when Kyoutani shivers violently at the sensation. “Use your words, _Mad Dog_ ,” he taunts.

“Fuck you,” Kyoutani snarls, and Kei grins, pulling back so he can look at him.

“Direct, but it _is_ using your words,” Kei muses, delighting in the way Kyoutani’s ears go red.

“That’s not—” he begins hotly, then cuts himself off.

“Oh? Isn’t it?” Kei asks mercilessly.

 _You’re more cruel_ , he thinks of Kunimi saying. _He couldn’t be as sharp if he tried._

He looks at Kyoutani’s teeth, and thinks, _I want him to try._

Kyoutani doesn’t say anything, just stares up at Kei defiantly, furiously, frustratedly. His fingers twitch, and Kei’s first thought is to wonder what they would feel like wrapped around his throat. It makes his breath hitch, and Kyoutani’s eyes widen.

“You—” he begins, and Kei presses his thigh against the seam between Kyoutani’s legs. Kyoutani moves his legs apart without hesitation, swallowing a groan as Kei pushes his thigh against the crotch of Kyoutani’s jeans.

“Isn’t it?” Kei repeats, more quietly, but with the same mocking thread to his voice as always.

Kyoutani glares at him, but he lets out a low whine when Kei presses harder against him, something half-choked. Almost a howl. 

His hands are raised, like he’s trying to decide where on Kei to touch, like he’s trying to decide if he’s _allowed_ to touch, and for a second, all Kei can think of is the way Akiteru held his hands up against the dog all those years ago, as if fending him off. 

But Kyoutani is looking at him with hungry, desperate eyes, and his fingers are twitching like they want to claw into Kei’s skin. But Kyoutani is whimpering as Kei presses against him, all sharp tongue and wicked grins.

Kyoutani is the one called Mad Dog, but Kei thinks they might have the story wrong. Kei thinks he might be the wolf.

“You’re an asshole,” Kyoutani says, and he’s grabbing Kei by the collar, pulling him down to his level, searching his eyes. Kei wishes he cared about what Kyoutani would find.

“I’m pretty sure that’s the opposite of a dealbreaker for you,” Kei taunts, and Kyoutani’s lips twist into a snarl.

“Fuck you,” he says, but then he presses his lips against Kei’s, his whole mouth, like he’s trying to devour him. It’s not a kiss, it’s an act of consumption. It’s what burning tastes like. Everything is made of teeth and blood, and Kei wants to be lost in it.

He walks backwards towards the bed, pulling Kyoutani with him, never separating their mouths. It’s not comfortable at all, the way they fall in a sea of limbs, but it’s frenetic, _ferocious_ , and it’s exactly what Kei wants.

Kyoutani’s hands are scrabbling at his shirt, tearing impatiently at it, but he is oddly careful with the buttons, removing each with a gentle touch that is uniquely terrible in the urgency of the moment. 

Kei has enough soft moments of boys with sharp edges burned into his memory, his retinas, his heart. He does not need anymore.

“Let me,” he says, and he tugs the shirt from Kyoutani’s hands, pulling apart the buttons quickly, uncaring when one pops off. Kyoutani’s gaze follows its path to the floor, and Kei wishes his brow didn’t furrow like that. 

Kyoutani Kentarou is a boy, or maybe a man, but Kei is looking at him, asking him to be a wolf.

Kei shrugs off his shirt, and then Kyoutani’s eyes are back on him, and they’re hungrier than ever. They’re on his chest—no, his collarbone. Kei realises, a second later, what he’s so captivated by.

“You’re a fucking cliché,” Kyoutani says, but he leans down to attach his mouth to Kei’s tattoo, all scrabbling teeth and wet heat. 

“Shut up,” Kei says, even though it’s true. “We all got it.” Only eighteen year old Hinata would come up with an _eclipse_ as a tattoo idea. Only eighteen year old Kei would say yes, drunk from the alcohol Saeko snuck them when they asked, and the feeling of being young and invincible.

“So much for classified,” Kyoutani throws back at him, tilting his head up to meet Kei’s eyes. A beat, two, three. “Are there any more?”

His voice is rough, his eyes dark. Kei does not feel gratified easily by others’ interest or arousal, but Kyoutani is burning red, and Kei wants to be made molten.

“You’ll have to find out,” Kei says. 

Kyoutani’s lips curve into a sharp grin, and he lunges for Kei’s throat.  
  


✧  
  


“Has anyone ever told you that you care too loudly?” Suna asks him flatly once.

Kei frowns at him. “Uh, no,” he says incredulously. “Do I look like Hinata?” _Or Kageyama? Or Kyoutani? Or — Or — Or —_

Other than Kunimi, and arguably Sakusa, depending on how loose your definition of what constitutes a social circle is, Kei thinks he is surrounded by people who care too loudly. He just would never have included himself in that number.

“I’ve known the twins since I was fifteen,” Suna says, which seems extremely irrelevant to Kei. “Anyone could tell you that Atsumu cares too much, even though he’s a fucking jerk, and always has been. Kita-san, Aran-san, Komori for a while… he wouldn’t say a single nice thing to or about any of them, but he gave them all the attention in the world. He’s never been subtle about how he feels.”

Kei frowns, and thinks of Kageyama.

“Osamu cares just as much,” Suna continues, “but he’s less of a jerk. I mean, he’s just as mean as Atsumu, but he’s less stupid about how he acts when he cares. They’re both fucking hopeless because they care so _much_ , but Atsumu bothers whoever he cares about, and Osamu…” 

Kei follows where Suna is gesturing, and sees Osamu and Sakusa standing in the corner of the room. There’s nothing big that suggests anything that’s going on there, but Kei thinks he would see it, even if Suna and Kageyama hadn’t alluded to it. It’s in the way Osamu’s eyes keep catching on the way Sakusa’s brows furrow, the way Sakusa leans in to listen to whatever Osamu is saying, the way their hands rest unnaturally at their sides, as if they’re deliberately holding them still, resisting an impulse to reach out.

“What does this have to do with me?” Kei asks, making a disgusted expression.

Suna snorts. “You’re as bad as they are,” he says, shaking his head. “Deliberately not looking at someone is just as loud as following them around the room.”

Kei scowls at Suna, and takes a drink. He deliberately does not look across the room, even when he feels eyes on him.

“Loud,” Suna says, sighing.  
  


✧  
  


_You can run now, Kei_ , Akiteru had said all those years ago, but here Kei finds himself, with the dog’s teeth on his throat, and all he wants is more.

Kei wants to twist his fingers in Kyoutani’s hair, but Kyoutani barely fucking _has_ any, so he finds his hands running down his back, dragging his nails across it.

Kyoutani nips Kei’s throat, and Kei moans. It is a guttural noise, born out of howling desire, and he is too impatient to do anything but buck his hips when Kyoutani smirks. 

“You’re eager,” Kyoutani says, but it’s not _teasing_ , it’s _tender_ , and Kei hates it, Kei burns for it, Kei rewrites it into something easier to swallow. There is a part of Kei that softens at the gentleness underneath Kyoutani’s roughness, and the rest of Kei cannot abide it for that reason.

“You’re not biting hard enough,” he says, and snakes his hand down between them, wrapping it around Kyoutani’s cock. He gives a sharp tug, then grins when Kyoutani drops his head to Kei’s shoulder and instinctively clamps down. 

“Fuck,” Kyoutani gasps, looking up, and Kei sets a steady, unforgiving pace. “Was that hard enough for you, you asshole?”

“Hmm,” Kei muses innocently, then flicks his thumb over the head of Kyoutani’s cock, and presses his lips against Kyoutani’s to swallow his groan.

“I hate you,” Kyoutani mutters, but he doesn’t sound like he means it. He never sounds like he means it. Kei wishes he meant it. This would be so much easier if he did.

“Feisty,” he says dryly instead, because he wants to see Kyoutani’s eyes flash, he wants to feel lightning coursing under Kyoutani’s skin, he wants it to sear through Kyoutani so ferociously that it chases the tenderness out.

Kei wants to fuck the tenderness out.

“You’re such a _dick_ ,” Kyoutani spits out, and then he’s sucking on Kei’s neck, running his hands up and down his chest, _scratching_ him, digging his nails in, and Kei thinks of dogs and wolves, claws and teeth, and what it means to hunger.

“Fuck,” Kei exhales, releasing Kyoutani’s cock. Before Kyoutani can smirk at him, however, look too smug, too proud, Kei wraps his arms around Kyoutani’s back and rolls them over, sitting up so he’s straddling Kyoutani. He misses Kyoutani’s lips on his neck, but it’s stinging right now, feeling swollen and raw, and something in him feels viciously satisfied at the idea that he has interrupted Kyoutani’s ritual—that it is all teeth, no tenderness, all bite, and no tongue to soothe the sting.

He shoves his fingers into Kyoutani’s mouth, and Kyoutani sucks on them. There’s a scowl on his face, but it’s the one that means he’s focused, resolute. Kei still does not know what colour his eyes are, but they look unflinching in moments like this.

“Enough,” he says, pulling his fingers free. He feels Kyoutani’s cock twitch beneath him, and he grinds against it.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Kyoutani swears, and Kei smiles, all teeth.

He looks at Kyoutani, exhaling a litany of curses, cheeks flushed and eyes bright, and thinks about how he’d look whimpering beneath Kei’s merciless hands – thinks about sinking down on Kyoutani, riding him to the edge and then stopping, just to see that flash in his eyes, to hear that _growl_ – thinks about Kyoutani’s teeth marking up his shoulder, about his fingers wrapping around Kei’s neck –

Kei thinks about fucking the tenderness out of him, making him swear viciously and blindly and scratch up his back, and he wants, he _wants_.

“That’s the idea,” he says.  
  


✧  
  


Kei dreams of a dog and a lake, sharp teeth and endless stretching blue.

The dog looks into the lake, expecting to be swallowed up by blue; instead he sees the whites of his eyes.

Instead he sees sharp teeth.

He hears Hinata’s voice: _why do you look so sad?_

 _You can run now, Kei_ , Akiteru says, but there’s nowhere left to run.

There’s just endless blue, and something burning red inside his chest, and sharp teeth staring back.

**Author's Note:**

> me: working on tkknkg  
> me: needs to write kyoukei to get it out of my system so i can focus on tkknkg again  
> me, squinting at kyoukei after finishing: .... hi kunimi. hi kageyama. fuck
> 
> i told mar i was writing something suggestive at the kitchen bench while drinking orange juice and eating dinner and she told me, and i quote, "this is the best image idfskjhfjsdf im not sorry for feeling immense schadenfreude at this" so. love u too fdskhjs
> 
> anyway. i've been ia trying to get my deadlines done but yam's bullying me back this weekend (today?) and i love her for it so come find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/kurokenns/) (or my [nsfw twt](https://twitter.com/KUNlKAGE/) as well if that's ur speed, though it's mostly me losing my mind over rarepairs and fwb). i am going to sleep now and then get back to tkknkg <3
> 
> fic post on twt can be found [here!](https://twitter.com/kurokenns/status/1305167348471537669?s=20)


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